Crunching Numbers
by PapayaK
Summary: "What are you thinking, John?" Recently, I asked that question while re-watching 'Number Crunch' as John walks across the parking garage towards his confrontation with Mark Snow. Then it got longer as I realized there might be a lot more going on than I had first thought. There are also chapters from Carter's and Finch's POVs.
1. John's POV

A/N - I am pretty sure I am not the only one who _often_ looks at that handsome, chiseled, _stoic_ face and wonders "What are you thinking, John?"

Many stories I've started have their origins in that question. Recently, I asked that question while re-watching 'Number Crunch' as John walks across the parking garage towards his confrontation with Mark Snow. Then it got longer as I realized there might be a lot more going on than I had first thought.

This is what I came up with - it turns out he was thinking about quite a lot.

oO0Oo

John made his way towards the car looking forward to heading home. He loosened the muscles in his neck and shoulders as he went, shrugging into that more comfortable 'off-duty' feeling. As he crossed the deserted and silent upper level of the garage, he thought about the events of the evening. Most importantly, Wendy and Paula were safe.

He frowned a bit when he thought about the fact that they hadn't been in time to save Claire or Matt. It was deeply troubling. Why hadn't the machine given them those numbers sooner? He made a note to discuss that with Finch at the first opportunity… or in the morning. If he would admit it to himself, he was _tired_. Plus Finch should get some extra rest after nearly being blown up yesterday. Yes - he'd ask about it in the morning.

John would not be so quick to force his employer out into the field in the future. But he couldn't help being impressed at Finch's willingness to join him. He'd only hesitated for a moment. And then, when danger had arisen, when they'd realized there was a bomb, Finch had not run for cover. He had not thought of his own safety in spite of John's exhortations to the contrary. He'd moved towards the danger instead of away from it and nearly been caught in the explosion. John had learned more about Finch in that moment than in the last several weeks combined. He made a mental note to keep a close eye on his boss over the next few days to make sure the damage to his neck and back hadn't worsened.

John would sleep pretty good tonight, though - knowing that Finch had escaped harm, and Wendy and Paula had that shopping bag full of money. They'd do some good with it. Take care of their mom, maybe have a little left over for themselves. It was gratifying to know he'd been able to give them that.

After handing out pain and suffering for so long - to be the one to give succor and safety to those in need felt like a balm to his wounded soul.

Once again he felt thankful to Finch for this new opportunity. He understood what he'd been given - not just a second chance, but also a chance at redemption. It was also a chance to know and 'work with' people like Detective Joss Carter.

Carter…

He'd honestly begun to believe that people like her had become extinct… Far too many bad people - not enough good. Carter was good.

Tension continued to bleed away as he took another deep breath. He thought about how he'd been able to save her life - and how just moments ago she'd actually _thanked_ him for it.. They may not be on the same side… yet. But at least he was not her enemy. There was a time when he would have been. Kara would have hated her. Snow, of course, would like her - or at least - he'd like being able to manipulate her.

He wished that Mark Snow and his pals at the CIA had never learned of Carter's existence - of her connection to _him_. But he had known that - sooner or later - they would. It had become inevitable the night he'd first met Carter. After that debacle on the subway, he'd known she would run his prints. And he'd known that running his prints would raise red flags on more than one database.

At the time he hadn't cared in the least.

That night was supposed to be his last.

It wouldn't have mattered if Snow - or anyone else for that matter - had come looking because he would be beyond their reach. He'd be dead.

Now that he _was_ still around - and intending to stay that way - he could only hope that somehow no one ever noticed that an NYPD detective had managed to run a 'dead' CIA agent's prints through AFIS.

Regardless, he resolved anew not to allow his past mistakes to hurt her.

He'd asked Finch to continue his heightened monitoring of her, even after they'd eliminated Mr. Kovach, Hector Alvarez, and Elias as threats to her.

He'd suspected his boss would have anyway. Finch was thorough like that.

Then, over the bluejacked phone, he'd heard her utter the words, " _You're CIA - I met plenty like you in the Green Zone..."_ John had heard Snow telling her about him. Mixing enough truth with the lies to make it believable. Heard Mark claiming to be his 'best friend.'

His fears had come to pass. Mark Snow was busy trying to manipulate Detective Carter.

He'd vowed to himself to do whatever it took to keep Snow from hurting Carter. And he would keep that vow. But there was little he could do about it tonight. Tonight he would allow himself some much needed rest.

oO0Oo

The garage wasn't completely silent, of course. Nor had John ceased being vigilant. Being unaware of his surroundings was something he'd long forgotten how to do. And parking structures in New York City were rarely still.

There was at least one vehicle roaming the aisles, a big one - SUV of some kind judging by the sound. John noted it, but didn't give it much thought. Soon whoever was driving would find their spot, or pick up some hospital worker who'd just finished a shift and they'd depart. It was one of the reasons he'd parked on the top level in the first place. No one came up here unless there was no where else to park, and that was not the case tonight. The garage was barely half full.

So when the engine noise only increased, he frowned slightly to himself and felt his tension return, his body automatically returning to a state of alertness. The vehicle should be departing by now. The fact that it wasn't meant trouble. His inner musings silenced themselves as he re-checked his escape routes. There wasn't much cover available - none that he could reach before the car came into view.

As the vehicle approached, he quickly scanned for possible dangers. He knew what _he_ would do if tasked with capturing (or killing) a man such as himself. So he cataloged possible sniper perches, noted that the cameras had quit blinking, evaluated his options, and accepted the possibility that he would not be leaving this place unscathed.

The gloom was his biggest advantage. The headlights would be his enemy's. Shooting them out would be his first priority.

The final step of his preparations was to calculate the most strategic position in which to stand and face his enemy. It was the tiniest advantage, but if it allowed him to reach cover even a fraction of a second sooner, it would be worth it. He knew he would need _every_ possible advantage.

Tracking the car's approach, he continued to walk until he reached his last stand, outwardly appearing to be relaxed and unconcerned.

He turned just as the car stopped, almost nonchalant in his motions. Giving his enemy the impression that he was unprepared would also be to his advantage.

As he tried to make out the occupants of the vehicle, his earbud beeped: Finch. If Finch was calling with a new number, he would just have to wait until John took care of the immediate threat. He tuned out the sound.

Then he received his first real surprise. He was not surprised to see _Snow_ exit the car - he'd already put that particular enemy at the top of the list of potential threats. He was surprised - and then slightly encouraged - to see _Carter_ get out the other side. He'd known Snow would manipulate her into being his asset. But the fact that she'd come along - that she hadn't merely turned him over and then turned her back - meant she wanted to see how this played out. That perhaps she wasn't completely sure she'd done the right thing. Yes, Joss Carter was someone the world could not afford to lose. He wished he could see if her expression was one of satisfaction or of doubt.

But confirming Snow as the threat also diminished his hopes of turning the situation to his advantage. Now he _knew_ there was a sniper. Now he knew _exactly_ what was at stake. The only thing he _didn't_ know was if Mark had orders to capture or to kill. His earbud beeped again and again he ignored it.

Snow's tone of voice revealed nothing. " _Hello, John."_

He readied himself while still appearing unconcerned. He injected a bit of surprise into his tone since Snow would be expecting it. " _Mark."_

" _Glad to see you're still alive."_

So that you can have the opportunity to kill me yourself? " _I bet you are."_

With the first words of the exchange, the scales were quickly tipping towards death rather than capture. The only question that remained was, Would Snow kill him in front of Carter? Once again he was grateful that her sense of justice had held true and she hadn't merely abandoned him to his fate.

When his earbud beeped a third time, it occurred to him that perhaps _his_ number had come up. He still couldn't answer.

Mark was talking, and John wondered why. " _I'm surprised you wound up in New York City. I thought you'd get yourself a cabin in the woods. Montana, maybe."_ Was he still trying to reinforce the lies he'd told Carter?

It was time to move things forward - to take some semblance of control. " _What do you want, Mark?"_

Snow's response was not encouraging _. "It's time to come home John. Slate's been wiped clean."_

It was a complete and blatant lie but the scales had tipped back in his favor just the tiniest bit. If Snow was here simply to terminate him, he'd have done it by now. Bless Carter for her dedication to justice. " _You know that'll never happen."_

What he was really saying was, ' _Just get on with this…_ ' He was sending his own message to the invisible sniper: ' _I'm not coming quietly… Do what you came here to do...'_

Then he braced himself for the coming bullet, chose his escape route, focused on taking out the headlights as quickly as possible, and prepared to move regardless of the damage to his body.

Then it came. A fire burned through his left side, and he fell. All conscious thought ceased and he moved by force of will alone. Though his body was screaming at him to curl into the fetal position to preserve life as long as possible, he pushed the noise away and threw all his effort into taking out those headlights.

He got the first one.

Then a second fire was ignited in his thigh. He did not allow it to affect his single minded focus, though.

Now he had a mission, and he pinned all of his energy to it. He was no longer man - A man could not move in his current condition. He was instinct - training - survival - determination. He took out the second light and made use of his planned escape route. Staggering to his feet was pure agony, but it just didn't matter. The door in front of him was all that mattered. Reach it- and then he could feel.

oOo

Crashing through the door and into the wall behind it, he instantly regretted his decision to allow himself to feel.

He leaned heavily against the wall and listened to the door swing shut behind him. He would have fallen if not for the railing and the fact that his good leg was locked beneath him. For a moment the pain was overwhelming and it was all he could do to keep breathing.

But Snow and company were out there and they weren't stupid. In a moment they would figure out where he'd gone and come after him or maybe they would cut him off at the street. Either way, he had to get out ahead of them.

He needed to move.

He grit his teeth, forced his knee to bend, and started down the stairs as fast as his wounds would allow.

Every synapse in his brain was engaged in controlling pain and forcing torn and bleeding muscles to move.

He recognized the symptoms of shock. He was all too familiar with the weakness that came from rapid blood loss. He was dying and he knew it and he wasn't all that surprised. Harold had told him from the beginning that he'd probably wind up dead. He'd thought it would be from a bullet intended for one of the Numbers. He hadn't expected someone from his past to be the offender.

His past…

It had been a long time since anyone had cared whether he lived or died.

So when his earbud beeped again, his finger went to his ear without even thinking about it _._

" _Hey, Harold."_

" _John! I've been trying to call you."_

" _Yeah… I've been kinda busy."_  
 _  
"Where are you?"_

" _The parking structure… It's not looking good."_

" _Carter sold you out. They got to her."_

Carter… She'd been forced from his thoughts. But he didn't hold her actions against her - Snow was a master of manipulation. John was still grateful to her. Her presence was very likely the only reason he was still alive… still free…  
" _Yeah - they're clever like that."_

But none of that mattered any more...

" _I wanted to say thank you, Harold... for giving me a second chance."_ Thank-you for being the reason I will not die the monster that I was... That I had a chance to do some good in this world...

" _It's not over, John. I'm close. Just get to the ground floor."_

Close? No! John already blamed himself for connecting Mark Snow with Carter - if Snow got wind of _Finch_ because of him…

He couldn't let Harold - or his work with the Numbers - be jeopardized because of a futile and pointless attempt at rescue.

Don't come here, Finch. Don't put yourself in Snow's sights - he doesn't know you exist. Don't sacrifice yourself. Not for me… Not for me… " _No… You stay away… Don't even risk it!"_ But part of him already knew his protest would fall on deaf ears. Finch was just as stubborn as he.  
'Just get to the ground floor' echoed in his head as his vision began to fade. 'Just get to the ground floor.'

He turned at the bottom of the stairs and tried to start down the next flight but it wasn't there. Expecting to step down, his foot landed hard and sent a shockwave of pain through his body. He moaned.

Wracked with a fresh wave of pain, he knew he was just about done. He leaned heavily on the railing and fought to remain upright. There were no more stairs. Had he reached the ground floor? Would Finch really be there?

Through a haze he saw a door. He all but launched himself toward it. His legs no longer obeying his commands, he pretty much fell through. If not for the railing just on the other side he would have fallen and that would have been it.

A screech of tires forced his head up and a large, dark shape sped towards him. He blinked and saw Finch getting out of the car and heading his way.

Once again Harold had found a way to keep him going beyond what was humanly possible. Not because he'd given hope of survival - but because now John needed to make sure Finch got out of there before Snow found him.

He knew he was in shock. Gasping, unable to hold himself upright any longer he put out an arm in a silent, desperate plea for help and stumbled toward the car, his eyes closed against the pain. He had to stay on his feet. If he fell, Finch would be captured.

Just as Finch reached him they both heard, " _Hold it!"_

John felt rather than saw Finch's head jerk up in the direction of the sound. Was it Snow? Was he too late to get Finch out of there? He looked. He had to somehow save Finch from whatever the threat was.

Carter.

Moment of truth time.

oOo

Later - as he sat watching hour after hour of boring video feeds in their next case, John would turn this moment over in his mind. He would deeply regret what they'd asked of Carter. He knew it had torn a part of her away: The part of her that was clear black and white.

For Finch's sake - and his own - he would be eternally grateful that gray had won the night.

But at that moment he'd had nothing left to give. No more strength. Determination could carry you only so far...

" _You-"_

He heard her recognize Finch. Now she would track him as well. Would she turn them both over to Snow out of a sense of duty? Or would her experience tonight open her eyes to who Snow really was?

He wanted to ask her to get Finch away from there, but he couldn't summon the energy.

The seconds ticked by as she wrestled with her sense of right and wrong. Eternal seconds - each one brought Snow closer.

Finally: " _Get him out of here."_

And then he felt _her_ arms around him. Stronger than Finch, she helped him the remaining distance to the car. Once inside he looked up at her. He saw anger, reluctance, duty, fear, and frustration all at war. He had nothing to say that would help, nor the strength to speak if he had.

Finally - resignation and concern won: " _Go!"_

They were away.

Agony coursed through him as Finch tore over the curb and around the corner, but he welcomed it for now every passing second took them further from capture, from imprisonment, although perhaps not from death - death seemed to be keeping pace.

Carter had let them - had _helped_ them escape.

Finch seemed determined to try to save him.

John closed his eyes, gave himself fully to the process of surviving, and considered the unbelievable, incredible fact that someone - perhaps even _two_ someones - cared about him enough to risk themselves for his survival.

He would do his best not to let them down.

oO0Oo  
the end  
oO0Oo

 **I have a rough draft of Carter's POV, and an outline of Finch's, but honestly, I probably won't get them ready for publishing unless you guys seem interested. I'm not holding them 'for ransom,' just stating a fact.**


	2. Carter's POV part 1

**A/N:** This was really hard to write due to the fact that I believe Carter feels very conflicted about all these events. That is not her natural state, as we all know. It was hard to depict her that way and still make her seem like herself.  
I hope you enjoy this, and feel it is true to the events of the episode.  
It got too long, so it will be presented in two parts. Thanks for reading. –Papaya

 **oO0Oo  
Crunching Numbers – Carter's POV  
oO0Oo**

 _Fusco: How's it going - with the inquiry and everything?_

 _Carter: The way these things usually go. They make you feel like you murdered your own mother._

 _Fusco: What did you tell 'em about the C.I.?_

 _Carter: The truth. That he was taken out by an unknown shooter._

 _Fusco: The guy - you got a good look at him this time, didn't you?_

 _Carter: No. Not his face._

 _Fusco: Well, maybe that's a good thing. 'Cause - you know - it would be hard. You don't know whether to thank the guy or arrest him._

 _Carter: No. That'd be easy. I'd arrest him._

 **oO0Oo**

It would be easy - so easy to arrest him. The only reason she'd hesitated to answer when Fusco asked, was because she'd been surprised at the question. _Of course_ she'd arrest him - if only she'd get the chance. You didn't let a bank robber off the hook because he saved a kitten from a tree. Saving kittens was nice, but crimes needed to be punished. If you let that slide, things went downhill in a hurry.

People like her 'Man in the Suit' - _especially_ people like him - needed to be off the streets.

Part of her was angry she hadn't somehow managed to detain him that awful night - the night he'd saved her. If he had reached out to her in any way, she liked to think she would have slapped the cuffs on him right there.

But he hadn't. He'd crouched down next to her, but he'd stayed out of arm's reach. And he'd stayed in the shadows - careful not to let her see him clearly. He'd gotten close enough to make certain she was okay, but not close enough for her to catch him.

She hadn't asked him to save her. And she wouldn't hesitate to arrest him - if only she'd get the chance.

Three months.

Three months of chasing this guy and she never seemed to get any closer. She was angry. She was frustrated. And now this IA inquiry? Guy saves her life and all she gets is more trouble because of him. How could they possibly think she was working with a man like him?

She thought back over those three months since she'd first met him and chided herself for the millionth time. Why had she let him get away that first night? _She'd had him in custody._ She'd known who - she'd known _what_ he was. She'd suspected it from the moment their eyes met.

"Homeless guy in a fight with a gang on the subway." That report had given her a certain set of expectations. Namely: she'd expected to be visiting a homeless bloody pulp in the hospital. Instead she'd seen some bruised and bloodied punks. Then she'd seen the video and realized those punks were lucky to be alive. Then she'd looked up to see _him_ watching _her_ \- measuring her with eyes so cold and dead, they'd given her an involuntary shiver.

How could she have let him out of her sight? She'd watched the tape and recognized what he was immediately. She knew exactly where you learned to fight like that. Combine that with the cold emptiness in his eyes and she had a very good idea of what he was. How was it possible that a high-dollar lawyer just happened to show up while she was running his prints?

" _Wow... Wow, wow. Your guy's prints were found in half a dozen crime scenes over the years... Open warrants in four different countries... Who you got down there, Carter? The Angel of Death?"_

It was odd that he'd looked away when she'd showed him the footage of the fight.. Almost as if he'd been uncomfortable with what he was - maybe even ashamed.

But then he'd disappeared.

Only to reappear at regular intervals over the next three months: a vigilante.

Vigilantes were bad news. Absolutely confident in their own righteousness, they took the law into their own hands. No, it was worse than that. They made up their own laws - according to whatever whim they chose. And worse yet - they never chose peaceful means to their ends.

Thankfully, most real-life vigilantes were idiots: Couch captains who saw themselves as caped crusaders. But not this time. _This time_ , her vigilante was a man who was highly skilled, extremely intelligent, and very deadly. She wasn't afraid of him, but she was smart enough to know he was a person to be feared. She was afraid for the people who crossed his path. She'd already seen enough of his victims. It didn't matter that he didn't seem to be killing anyone he didn't have to. Bad people or not - they were bloodied - in pain - sometimes permanently crippled.

Good guys didn't leave a wake of agony like he did.

oO0Oo

Then she got called into the captain's office only to find another man in a suit reading the file on _her_ 'Man in the Suit.'

" _Did he shoot your C.I.?"_

Great. Just great. Now someone else- most likely CIA - was going after her guy. She had no interest in sharing her investigation. She wanted to bring this guy down herself.

Which was interesting if she would pause long enough to think about it.

Why did she feel so possessive?

Why had she come to think of this as her case? _Her_ man-in-a-suit? It hadn't been assigned to her. She'd just - somewhere along the line - taken it personally.

Was it because she'd recognized him? There weren't a lot of ex-military like her on the force - did she feel some kind of bond with this guy?

In her world, where half the cops were dirty, was it refreshing to find someone who - criminal or not - seemed to live by a code?

Was it because she'd seen the regret in his eyes?

Did she sense some kind of similarity between him and her husband, Paul? Struggling to fit back into civilian life when you'd seen too much - been shackled with a set of skills - ingrained with a way of living that was utterly incompatible with civilian life.  
Was it because she'd actually enjoyed their banter on the few occasions they'd spoken?

Had she found a worthy opponent? Did she really feel like - if they'd been on the same side - he'd be a kindred spirit? Maybe even… a friend?

She'd never stopped hunting him long enough to consider any of this. It didn't matter. She was a cop. And that meant she had rules.

She would keep her promise: She would put him behind bars, or find him bleeding out somewhere. She couldn't be more certain. Sooner or later he would cross a line. She had to find him and stop him before that.

She had to.

oO0Oo

When she decided to help with Fusco's case, she'd told him she'd gotten bored. Being restricted to her desk was a pain, but more than anything she'd needed a distraction. Something that wasn't related to 'The Man in the Suit.' Something that didn't have anything to do with the inquiry hanging over her head - or the mysterious Agent Snow or anything like that. And Fusco's case was intriguing. The fatal car crash that had apparently resulted in two more fatalities appeared to be far more complicated than it looked at first glance.

Then she'd found out that someone was impersonating a cop in order to find out who else had been at the crash site. Someone who was willing to resort to beatings and torture to get the information they needed.

Of course, no sooner had she left that information on Fusco's phone than Agent Snow had showed up again - following her down a New York street - him and his 'preppy friend.'

So much for her distraction. It was time she found out what the CIA was willing to tell her. She knew it wouldn't be the whole truth. She knew these guys from her time in the Green Zone. Some truth mixed with a lot of fiction. They were clever - masters of manipulation. She'd picked up a few of their more legal techniques to use in her own interrogations. She decided she'd listen - then compare what they told her with her own thoughts on The Man in the Suit.

Snow started with a good one: They were worried about her. The Man in the Suit was dangerous. Well, she knew that already. Oddly, she suddenly found herself defending him.

Snow was his best friend? She supposed it was possible. But she doubted it.

" _He's an incredibly dangerous, incredibly gifted man who's been almost destroyed by the things he was made to do."_

That statement had a definite ring of truth to it. But Carter wondered if Snow even understood just how true it was.

Then he started going on about 'trust' and 'paranoia.' That, too, had a ring of truth to it, but Carter knew when she was being played. The whole story about Kara Stanton - his partner - and how he'd betrayed and killed her. It had far too many similarities to her own situation. Snow was spinning a tale in order to manipulate her. She also knew his tale would contain some truth. But what was truth and what was fiction?

" _We want to bring him back in before he kills anyone else. Before he kills himself."_ Snow told her. _"We want to help him."_

That one got to her. She was absolutely certain Snow was lying. But she was also pretty sure he was right, even if unintentionally.

The man in question was definitely a killer - and suddenly she realized that 'suicidal' also fit quite easily with what she knew of him. And then all those things - those questions she'd never taken the time to ask herself, sunk in and she realized: Yes, she was going to catch him, but if she could also help him - she would. And he just might need it.

The CIA wanted her Man in the Suit. What they wanted him for, she wasn't certain. But she suddenly saw how she could turn this to her advantage. And if anyone had the tools to stop her vigilante, and return him to a safe and productive life as a civilian - you could do worse than the very people who had taken his life from him in the first place.

If she could stop him - AND help him - she would use the CIA to do it. Three frustrating months of chasing him were about to come to an end. She was going to catch him. She could _feel_ it.

" _So where do I come into all of this?"_

oO0Oo

Energized by her new plan, she threw all her energy into Fusco's case while she waited for something to happen. Snow's phone number was nearby - they were just waiting for her word.

Then the phone rang. It was him. _"I heard you've been taking some heat because of me."_

She played along - trying to get some clue as to where he might be. She supposed she should be surprised that he was working on the same case as she - but she'd quit being surprised by him a while ago.

" _Parking Garage, St. George's Hospital."_

She asked him when, but his only response was to say he had to go, essentially telling her it was going down now. He was about to end the call.

" _Wait-_ " she insisted, surprising herself.

There was a pause as she realized what she needed to say to him.

" _Thank-you_..." Was she really doing exactly what she'd told Fusco she wouldn't? Suddenly she knew she'd always meant to. "...For saving my life." Would he be surprised that she'd thanked him? What would he say in return?

There was genuine warmth in his tone as he simply responded, " _You're welcome._ " And then he was gone.

She could hear the echo of his earlier words - spoken with that same warmth:

" _I know this doesn't change anything. I know you'll still arrest me if you get the chance. But you should know… whether you like me or not, Joss… You're not alone."_

And the emotions she'd felt in those moments flooded through her. The sense of betrayal as B.C. pulled his weapon. The pain when he'd shot her. The terrible certainty that she was about to die - that she'd never see Taylor again. And then the absolute wonder of having her mysterious vigilante appear at the very last moment and save her life.

Could she really call Snow?

She grabbed the card with Snow's number and set it in front of her, but then she stilled.

She sat staring at her phone.

Could she really call Snow? Tell him where The Man in the Suit was going to be? What was the right thing to do?

She reached out slowly, and then picked up the phone.

She was a cop, she told herself.

She had rules.

There were no gray areas.

She dialed, but as she did, she couldn't help wondering - was she doing the right thing?

She was angry at herself for being uncertain. Her world was clear - she knew right from wrong - why was this so hard?

" _Snow_." said the voice in her ear.

" _He just called."_ She told him. _"I know where he's going to be."_ And she closed her eyes and prayed she was doing the right thing.

oO0Oo

Snow, of course, had immediately demanded an address. He'd thrown her some half-hearted gratitude - something along the lines of 'Your country thanks you.' Already dismissing her.

Carter was having none of that. She wouldn't tell him the address - she would show him. If nothing else - she was determined to be there when this all went down.

Snow didn't respond at first and she could almost picture the steam coming from his ears. But if he wanted the location, he was going to have to take her along. Finally he agreed and told her to be at the curb in five minutes.

oO0Oo

During those five minutes, she managed to regain some of her earlier enthusiasm. She was about to take The Man in the Suit into custody - finish what she'd started three months ago. There would be no more vigilantism. No more illegal take downs of criminals. No more shattered kneecaps.

No more gift-wrapped bad guys. No more innocents snatched from a danger the police didn't even know existed...

Now as she climbed in next to Snow, and told him to head East, she began again to doubt his motives. What did the CIA really want?

She trusted her government. She wasn't so naive as to trust all its agents. Were they really trying to save a damaged agent? She had to accept the possibility that they might just kill him. "Where's your friend?" She asked, wondering about his partner.

"Had somewhere else to be." Snow responded evasively.

Carter frowned.

"Are we getting close?" Snow inquired trying to change the subject.

"Left up here." She gestured, chewing the inside of her cheek. "How we gonna do this?"

Snow didn't take his eyes off the road. "Already planned out. Nothing for you to do but wait and watch." His voice clearly told her she was unneeded and unwanted. "Are we almost there?"

She didn't respond. Just stared at him a beat longer - trying to look into this man's soul. What she saw was not encouraging.

"Carter?" He prompted, impatient.

They were less than a block away. Soon - one way or another - she would have her answers. The mystery of The Man in the Suit would finally be solved. "Turn right." She told him. "St. George's parking garage."

oO0Oo  
TBC…  
oO0Oo


	3. Carter's POV part 2

o0O0o

They slowly patrolled the lower levels of the parking garage without any sign of him.

The third level was swarming with local law enforcement and paramedics who were busy dealing with the Man in the Suit's latest conquests - the ones he'd called to tell her about - the ones she should have been taking care of instead of helping the CIA. Snow had to use his credentials to bypass them. "You better hope he's still here somewhere." He murmured to her.

They continued slowly on.

"You got the cameras?"

Carter thought for a moment that Snow was addressing her, but then she remembered his earbud - and his preppy friend.

'Had somewhere else to be, huh?' She thought to herself. They weren't alone then. Where was the other agent? What was he doing? And why did he need to take out surveillance?

She answered her own question with a sinking heart: Because they were about to do something they didn't want anyone to see.

Carter swallowed, suddenly hoping the Man in the Suit wouldn't be there after all.

There was no sign of him until they finally pulled out onto the upper level - and there he was.

All thoughts of Snow and the CIA fled as she saw the oddly familiar silhouette - watched him pause, turn to face them and then - for the very first time - she got a clear look at his face.

In an instant she'd memorized his features and found herself surprised at just how handsome he was. She hadn't expected that - hadn't even considered it. Shaking off the feeling of attraction that hit her unbidden, she got out of the car and instinctively moved toward him almost forgetting that Snow was there.

She paused when their eyes met. She thought she saw surprise register on his features. She felt him study her for a moment even as she was studying him. For that brief second it was as if no one else existed. And she suddenly knew - beyond any lingering doubt - that he was not her enemy.

She wanted her answers - craved them - and she felt that finally - _finally_ she would be able to get them. She opened her mouth to speak but then she saw him turn his gaze on Snow and his features went hard.

"Hello, John…"

She heard Snow address him and felt another emotion surge through her - 'John.' _His name was_ _ **John**_ _._

Then, with her interrogator's experience, she listened to their exchange, read their body language, and studied their features. And when she heard _John_ say the words, "You know that'll never happen," some of her answers suddenly became crystal clear.

It sunk in like lead that her hopes of Snow and the CIA _helping_ The Man in the… helping _John_ were utterly ridiculous - always had been.  
Suddenly she _knew_ John was a good man. Now she understood that all he had ever tried to do was help and protect.

And now he was going to die.

He had helped her - fed her information - closed cases for her - protected her - _saved her life._

She had only betrayed him.

Snow hadn't been in earnest - not even a little. He'd been lying. They weren't there to help - that had _never_ been their intention. They'd used her. Used her to track John and now to kill him.

She took a breath to protest - to shout - to somehow stop what was about to happen. But she was too late.

The moment it became apparent that he wasn't coming quietly, a sniper - probably Evans, she presumed - opened fire.

She saw John's blood- his pain- his eventual death - and knew it was all her fault.

And she had to acknowledge that a part of her had known all along that this was how it would go. She'd let her own feelings, her personal desires, her frustration and impatience cloud her judgement.

When bullets began to fly, she crouched behind the SUV and instinctively pulled her weapon, although from whom she needed to protect herself was unclear. Snow, Evans and John were all extremely dangerous men and each of them -now- had reason to want her gone. The CIA wouldn't want a witness - and John - she had betrayed him to his death.

But then, amazed, she watched as he struggled to his feet and staggered away.

She found herself cheering inside.

In a second, she realized that Snow and Evans hadn't seen where their quarry had disappeared. They'd known just how deadly he would be so they'd gone for cover when he'd returned fire. They'd lost him. Now they would have to search for him - clearing each floor as they went.

She on the other hand, had felt irrationally safe. She had simply been intent on her _Man in the Suit_. She'd understood immediately that he was shooting at the headlights - it's what she would have done - and she'd ducked so as not to be hit by a stray shot.

She'd seen him go down, bloodied but still fighting. She'd watched as he took the headlights out and in the resulting gloom she'd just barely been able to see him incredibly, unbelievably, get up and make for the door.

She was amazed at his calm, his ability to think- to plan- to escape while grievously wounded. Without thinking, and without looking back, she got up and followed him.

oO0Oo

 _What was she doing?_

At the moment she honestly had no idea. She wasn't still assisting her government in the capture of a dangerous vigilante. But was she helping him escape instead?

If she was assisting in his capture, she would have announced to Snow where she was going.

If she wasn't, why was her gun drawn? So she could more easily arrest him herself? Or because she feared his retaliation for her betrayal?

Somehow she knew she needn't fear him - and not because he was wounded - fatally from what she could see. She suspected that, like a wild animal, John would be even more dangerous when injured.

She didn't trust Snow and his partner - she knew that much - but she still didn't know what the whole truth _was_ …

Was it possible she just might have more reason to trust John than she did the CIA? _That_ went against everything she had previously believed.

The one thing - the _only_ thing of which she was absolutely certain was that _she wanted answers_. And as far as she knew, _the Man in the Suit_ had never lied to her...

Vigilante or her government? She knew whom she _should_ choose.

At least she used to.

Gun still drawn, but now lowered, she continued cautiously down the stairs.

This wasn't the first time she'd followed a blood trail. In her time in the service, and now in homicide, she'd seen a lot of blood. The amount she was seeing now - on the floor, the railing and occasionally, the wall - told her she'd most certainly be coming upon a body any minute now. Maybe her choice would be taken from her. John was dying. If she found him dead…

If John was dead it would be her fault. Her gut twisted again at the thought. _And_ she would never get her answers.

Unbelievably, she heard a murmur from somewhere below her and she increased her pace. A frown crossed her brow as she finally accepted the true cause of her urgency: _She wanted to help him_ \- to _save_ _ **his**_ _life_ if she could - to return the favor.

She was so frustrated she could scream. Why was she here? What did she want? She'd been so certain he needed to be caught - stopped. Now she wanted to help him? Help him escape?

Yes, she did.

She heard a door crash open and she ran the rest of the way down the steps. If he disappeared into the darkness, she knew she would never find him.

But when she pushed open that same door, ignoring the bloody handprints, she was presented with yet another shock: 'Mr. Burdett' was there to rescue him. Burdett, the mousey little paralegal she'd interviewed because she'd suspected he was somehow connected to the Man in the Suit.

" _Hold it!"_ She shouted. The cry was only partly a command to cease movement. It was also a yell of frustration. What she really wanted to scream was 'just stop a minute and let me think.' But you don't make Detective if you can't make split second decisions.

It was actually Burdett's sudden appearance that finally made up her mind.

In a split second her detective's mind threw this new information into the mix and tried to make sense of it:

The theft at evidence lock up.

The suspicions she'd had about 'Burdett's' involvement.

And now he was here - swooping in at the last minute to try to save the life of her vigilante.

The only thing she was absolutely certain of was that there was FAR more going on here than she had ever suspected.

There was too much that she couldn't see - that she didn't understand. She needed answers. She needed the _truth_. And she was absolutely certain that if she held them here - and let Snow come - she would never know. If Snow took them, she would never see either of them again.

In fact - she was pretty sure if she didn't let them go - _right now_ \- none of it would matter because John would be dead.

Not only that - he would die because of _her_ \- because she'd led his executioners to him. She'd betrayed him.

He'd saved her life. It was time she returned the favor.

She made the only decision she could. _"Get him outta here... C'mon."_

Gesturing for Finch to get back behind the wheel, she holstered her weapon and helped the dying man into the back seat herself. She paused then, and he looked up at her. Their eyes met, and she knew this was right. In fact, for a split second she nearly got in beside him.

She was pretty sure she wouldn't be welcome. Not after what she'd done. So instead: _"Go!"_

In that moment she was absolutely sure she'd made the correct decision - although she would lose that certainty many times over the coming days.

She slammed the door and watched as - with terrible irony - John's friend drove him _away from_ one of the finest trauma teams in the city.

Would she ever see him again?

 _Had_ she done the right thing?

Would she ever know?

The SUV finally squealed up behind her - probably (thankfully) delayed again by the LEOs still on level three. Snow opened his window and shouted, "Did you see anything, Carter? Where'd they go?"

She looked at him with her most determined, my-country-needs-me expression, and pointed in the opposite direction. "Dark sedan - heading that way fast."

Snow nodded once and was gone.

Carter stood there. Tears in her eyes. Looking back and forth: The direction she'd sent the CIA and the darkness into which The Man in the Suit had disappeared.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so alone.

Her answers suddenly didn't matter as much, although she knew she still wouldn't quit until she got them. No - her answers did not matter as much as the life of a man who'd done nothing but help - nothing but protect. She had led his killers straight to him.

She looked down at her hands and saw his blood.

She could not fix what she had done.

She could only wait.

And hope.

"Hold on, _John_." She whispered into the night. And prayed.

oO0Oo  
END  
oO0Oo

A/N - I'm still working on Finch's POV. I'll get it up eventually...


	4. Crunching Numbers - Finch's POV

A/N – I am truly sorry that this took so long. I know that too often as fanfic readers, there is a promised story or chapter that never materializes. I know how disappointing that is. I promised you Finch's POV – here it is. Finally.

Part of the reason it took so long was because I couldn't figure out where I wanted it to go, exactly. Finally it hit me: We just have to jump right in.

This story begins in the middle of the action, as Finch is speeding out of wherever he keeps his car hidden, toward John's last known location.

Also – I recommend reading the companion piece "Outside Looking In – The Best Surgeon in Najaf" along with this one, as it gives a more complete picture.

 **oO0Oo  
Crunching Numbers – Finch's POV  
oO0Oo**

Finch heard the tires squeal and blinked. The sound must have come from some other car.

He frowned when he confirmed that the source was his own vehicle. It had been many decades since the last time he'd driven in a way that caused the tires to protest. He glanced in the mirror and saw a pedestrian shaking a fist and shouting in his direction. He must have barely missed the man as he'd flown out of the parking garage. He hadn't noticed. He was thankful he couldn't hear what the poor gentleman was shouting.

He took a breath and forced his foot to relax the pressure it was putting on the gas pedal, allowing his speed to slow to something more closely resembling the speed limit.

What was he doing?

" _He just called…"_

He didn't drive like this. He _never_ drove like this. Everything he did was geared toward not attracting attention - to being invisible.

" _I know where he's gonna be…"_

He dialed Mr. Reese's number again, not noticing that with each unanswered ring, his foot pressed down a little harder as his feeling of urgency increased.

If he had stopped to think, he would have been very surprised at his own actions. His instinctive response to any crisis was to reach for his computers and the almost limitless information they could access. He solved nearly every problem that way. It had become his very identity. But when he'd realized Mr. Reese was in imminent danger, he hadn't paused, hadn't even considered the technology available to him. Instead, he'd been in the car and heading towards Mr. Reese's last known location before he realized he'd left his desk.

oO0Oo

Earlier in the week, when Mr. Reese had urged him into the field, he had hesitated.

" _I need you out on the street… You got to help me get eyes on the remaining three…"_

But a part of him that had long been asleep had stirred.

" _I can't track three people at once, and I don't want to lose anyone else."_

Finch really did believe he was more useful behind his desk. But was that belief due to his skill with computers, or because he'd come to believe he was rather worthless in any physical sense?

" _I need you out here."_

Obviously Mr. Reese didn't think him worthless in the field…

Neither had Nathan.

At that moment, something in him had changed – had reawoken. And not even nearly being blown up had been enough to send it back to sleep. He'd felt alive in a way he hadn't in ages. He owed Mr. Reese his thanks.

oO0Oo

He dialed Mr. Reese's phone yet again. Why wasn't he answering? Was he already too late? Had the CIA, assisted by Detective Carter, already captured him and confiscated his phone? Or perhaps they had no intention of capturing him. Perhaps Finch had failed him. Perhaps he was already dead.

But, he steeled himself, if the CIA had _planned_ to kill Reese, surely the Machine would have told him.

He was comforted by that fact until he remembered that the CIA was very capable of doing things that could be considered worse than death. He sped up once again. He _had_ to get there.

It occurred to him briefly that if he had stayed at his computer he would know a lot more than he did right now. He could have pinged Mr. Reese's phone. He could have accessed cameras. He could have listened to the police scanner.  
He would know – but he wouldn't be in a position to _do_ anything.

He felt sick.

Images flashed through his memory: Nathan, as the sheet was pulled over his bloody features. Grace's tear-streaked face as he turned his back on her. And then Rick Dillinger's closed eyes as the first heavy shovelful of dirt landed on him. He grit his teeth until they hurt – Reese _would not be next_.

He dialed again.

This time he was rewarded almost immediately. But his relief was greatly diminished when he heard the pain clearly evident in Mr. Reese's voice.

" _Hey Harold."_ John's apparent calm didn't fool him for a second. And it didn't even register that John had called him 'Harold.'

Perhaps he was too late after all.

" _John, I've been trying to call you."_ He heard the fear in his own voice – knew John heard it too. But, he decided, it was well warranted by the situation.

He did not notice that they had _both_ left the formality of surnames behind and slipped very naturally into friendship.

" _Yeah – I've been kind of busy…"_

Harold's heart sank as he heard the undertones. He feared John was badly injured – perhaps even dying. John's next words proved his concern was warranted.

" _Where are you?"_ He knew John had been at the hospital with Wendy and Paula. He also knew how quickly things could change.

" _Parking Structure."_

As Harold sped towards the next interchange, his worst fears were confirmed:

" _It's not looking good."_

The light turned yellow and he thrust the pedal to the floor. He'd seen John shake off previous bullet wounds as inconsequential. The fact that he was _admitting_ that he was in bad shape – offering the information without being asked nearly caused Harold to despair. Anger surged through him. This shouldn't be happening! It didn't _have_ to happen. _None of this would have happened_ if…

" _Carter sold you out,"_ he declared.He knew John wouldn't hold it against her, and he reluctantly acknowledged that John was probably right. _"They got to her."_ But _he_ still held her at least partly responsible.

" _Yeah, they're clever like that."_

He heard John's voice weaken. His resolve strengthened.

" _I wanted to say thank-you, Harold, for giving me a second chance."_

He heard his friend speak what sounded like his last words. He attempted to offer John some hope. _"It's not over, John. I'm close. Just get to the ground floor."_

" _NO! You stay away. Don't even risk it."_

Harold had known from the beginning that all John had ever wanted to do was protect people. He hadn't counted on the lengths to which John would go to protect _him_. Harold didn't want protection – didn't feel he deserved it. He had even programmed the Machine _not_ to protect him. It was _his_ turn to protect – to _save_ John.

If saving John's life meant putting his own at risk – so be it. He cast away all concern about the way he was driving and put every cylinder of his rather powerful car to use.

He was nearly there.

He pulled into the exterior lot just in time to see John stumble, barely holding himself upright, out of the door. He squealed into the garage, shocked at the amount of blood soaking his friend's shirt. Throwing the car into park he got out as fast as he could. From John's warning, he could only assume that Snow and friends were somewhere close. He realized John was at the end. He was not going to make it to the car without help.

John weakly raised an arm in a silent plea, and Harold was there. Immediately he was enveloped in a cloud of blood, sweat, and what he feared were John's last breaths. He turned his resolve to the back door of the car. He could get John that far. But then…

" _Hold it!"_

Carter.

Finch looked at her and fury nearly overwhelmed him. If he had been a more verbal type he would have screamed at her – "How could you!?" "Look what you've done!" "You've killed my friend… my only friend."

He saw her recognize him.

" _You?"_

He was too angry to be afraid.

Then he felt John struggle to turn his head, and his fury melted, enabling him to recognize the struggle within the detective. He waited – impatiently – until she finally made up her mind. Was he surprised that she decided to help them? At the moment, he didn't really care much about Carter one way or another. The only thing that mattered was getting John out of there and to someone who might – just possibly – be able to save his life. A possibility that was shrinking by the second.

" _Get him out of here… Come on…"_

He was grateful when she took his burden from him, allowing him to get back behind the wheel, and therefore get away that much faster, although he was reluctant to break contact with John while he was still breathing.

He got in. He put the car in drive and prepared to drive away just as soon as the door closed. His fury at Carter nearly resurfaced when she only stood there – holding the door open. Had she changed her mind? In a second he would leave anyway – not caring if she was injured in the process. But before he could act on the impulse…

" _Go."_ And she slammed the door.

At that instant, Harold forgot all about Carter, and Snow, and virtually everything except the fastest route to – ironically – the morgue. He brought all of the sedan's horsepower and handling to bear on the problem, and didn't notice or care if he caused an accident or two during his furious trip.

Gradually the buzzing in his ears faded, and he became aware of other things. One was the need for stealth. He knew Snow would come looking and he didn't want to give any indication of where they had gone, so he forced himself – if not to slow down, exactly – at least to drive with more control. The others were the sounds coming from the back seat, specifically, John's rather erratic breathing.

"Hold on just a little longer, Mr. Reese. We're nearly there." He murmured in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

John surprised him by responding. "Shouldn't… have… come... Too... dangerous..."

"Yes. Well." He pursed his lips, barely holding back his real feelings on the matter. "Assets like yourself are incredibly difficult to come by. It seemed irresponsible to lose the one I have."

There was an odd sound in response. Harold wasn't sure if it was a gasp of pain or a chuckle. Perhaps it was both, although he suspected the latter had been the intention.

There was no more time for talk though. They had arrived.

Harold had never told John about his various contingency plans. He'd hoped none of them would become necessary. Now he would find out just how effective this one was.

He put on the white coat he had stashed in the trunk and picked up the small suitcase full of money beside it, throwing the strap around his shoulder. Then he went to retrieve a stretcher.

It only took him a moment to bypass the electronic lock on the door. He knew the morgue was nearly deserted at this hour so he simply grabbed the nearest stretcher and headed back out to the car. When he opened the back door, though, he was rewarded with a moment of panic. John was utterly still and terribly pale.

"Mr. Reese?" He asked fearfully.

He reached out and laid a hand on John's arm intending to wake him. (He was only asleep, right?) He was rewarded with a sudden intake of breath and a grip on his wrist that was surprisingly strong.

"No." John growled, his eyes still closed. "No more."

"Mr. Reese – it's me. We need to get you inside. There's a doctor that can help you..." Finch spoke in the most reassuring tone he could muster. He very purposefully did not try to imagine what John might have been remembering through his cloud of pain and weakness.

Bleary eyes slowly turned to meet his. After a moment, John blinked, the grip softened and he nodded.

Finch pulled his feet out onto the pavement and together they managed to get him onto the stretcher.

"Not long now, John." Finch murmured mostly for his own benefit since he wasn't sure if John could still hear him or not. He pushed the stretcher through the doors and down the hall to the room where Dr. Madani was working the night shift.

Entering the room, he spoke the words he'd occasionally rehearsed ever since he'd discovered and researched this rather unusual coroner. " _Your name is Farouk Madani…"_

As soon as he knew he had the good doctor's cooperation, he went back to the car and retrieved the other case. It was full of items he'd collected gradually – things that were not normally stocked in morgues, but were almost essential to any surgeon. He'd made certain it included suture and surgical needles among other things. He'd learned that coroners only use a sort of heavy twine to stitch up bodies following autopsy and it made him nauseous to think of any living, healing person's wounds to be repaired in that way. Mr. Reese had enough scars.

He returned as quickly as he could to find Dr. Madani still doing a preliminary examination and preparation. The doctor nodded when he saw the contents of the case and thanked him, but didn't pause in his actions.

Finch wanted desperately to be somewhere else. But at the same time he couldn't leave.

The doctor glanced up at him, then paused long enough to reach into the case and hand him the chloroform and the sterile cloth Finch had stored inside.

He could do this.

Having been reassured by the doctor that he couldn't give John an overdose, he saturated the cloth and laid it over his friend's mouth and nose. He wanted John's pain to end.

The situation between them was completely unprecedented. John was the protector – the shield. Now he was completely vulnerable and weak and Finch was protecting him.

John looked up at him, simply trusting, and breathed willingly through the cloth. Finch returned his gaze until the drug took effect and John was no longer in pain.

Once John was unconscious, Finch took his first deep breath since hearing Carter make her declaration to Snow. John was no longer in pain, _and_ he was in capable hands. He looked up at the doctor and realized he was about to begin the surgery in earnest.

"I assume a few units of blood would not go amiss?" Finch asked the doctor, eager for an excuse to leave.

He nodded in response. "Among other things… You seem to have access and knowledge. Bring whatever you can. I will assess your friend's condition, and prescribe as we go along."

Finch turned to leave, but paused at the door. "John." He told the doctor, "His name is John."

Dr. Madani paused his work and looked back at him. In his best bedside manner he told Finch. "From what I can see at this point – I believe John will live through this."

Finch nodded, knowing that no promises could be made, and left.

oO0Oo

Approximately eighteen hours later, Finch was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in what was basically a broom closet. John slept beside him.

Early in the morning, Dr. Madani had concluded his repairs of John's wounds and reasserted his earlier declaration: John was lucky. The bullets had missed major organs and blood vessels. He had removed them and repaired the damage they had caused. With sufficient rest and care, John would be back on his feet in a few days.

The problem now was that other employees would be arriving soon, but John was too weak yet. It would be dangerous to move him. So Madani had hidden them in a rarely used storage room for the duration. He would retrieve them when he deemed it safe to do so.

Finch shifted painfully in his chair. He needed to stretch, to get – as John once encouraged him – some exercise, but there just wasn't room. John had been sleeping for eighteen hours straight, reminding Finch that not only had his friend been shot twice and endured major surgery – but he'd most likely gone without sleep for at least the previous twenty-four hours as he'd worked on Wendy and Paula's case.

When they were busy like this, Finch was able to catch short naps here and there, sometimes at his desk, sometimes on the couch. But in the field, when did Mr. Reese sleep? Finch realized that most likely, he didn't. He would have to keep an eye on that in the future. Just because the man could go without sleep for prolonged periods, didn't mean he should.

His musings were interrupted by the buzzing of his phone: another number.

He sighed. Really? Now?

He did a quick search on his phone and learned the basics of their latest number: Ernesto Trask – Superintendent of an apartment building not too far away.

He continued his research, now thankful for the distraction, and an idea began to form. Perhaps there was a way to investigate this case _and_ allow Mr. Reese to recuperate.

He set his phone aside when Mr. Reese began to stir.

"Finch?" he whispered.

"Yes, Mr. Reese, I am here. And I apologize for the accommodations." He quipped, knowing Mr. Reese would see the attempt at humor.

There was a small smile in return. "I've seen worse."

Finch raised an eye-brow at the understatement, but didn't comment. "The doctor says you will make a full recovery. In fact, I expect he will be here soon to remove your IV and allow us to leave. I have made arrangements that should allow you sufficient time to recover. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

"No rest for the wicked." John replied drily.

Before Finch could think of a suitable retort, the door opened and Madani entered, a wheelchair in the hallway behind him. "The last workers have departed, and I have given my employers notice that I will be quitting." He smiled. "It is safe for you to leave."

Finch paused and frowned at the 'chair, wondering how and why Madani had gone to the trouble of procuring it. It was not something normally found in a morgue.

The doctor saw his frown and commented. "I owe you a great deal." He said sincerely. "If you are ever in need of medical assistance in the future, please do not hesitate to call."

Finch nodded, and they began the process of 'discharging' Mr. Reese from his makeshift hospital.

Soon they were back in the car, Mr. Reese in the front seat this time. Finch noticed that the back seat had been detailed. He wondered what Madani had been up to all day while they waited in the storage room. How had he explained the blood to the cleaners? Or had he done it himself? Dr. Madani was far more of a resource than he'd expected.

It was a beautiful night in New York, weather-wise, and John opened his window, allowing the night air to fill the car. Finch heard him take as deep a breath as he could, and then he spoke,

"Finch…" He began.

But Harold knew what he was about to say, and he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to be thanked for saving John's life, when it was his own actions that had put John in danger in the first place. And he wasn't just talking about the parking garage.

He knew John believed it was his own past that had brought Snow to that parking garage – he blamed himself and saw Finch as his rescuer.

What Reese didn't know, was that Finch's actions had been affecting his life (unintentionally, perhaps, but affecting none the less) for many years. It was Finch's intention that Reese remain ignorant. But he would not be thanked. Instead he interrupted, "I hope you will find your new accommodations acceptable. I made certain the entire building is handicapped accessible. I know how valuable that is."

Reese frowned at the interruption. Finch knew he wondered about it, but he did not comment.

"I'm sure it'll be fine." John murmured in response.

Finch heard him draw another breath and was simply thankful that they were both moving on into a new day and a new number.

Eventually they would probably both end up dead. But today, they would continue. And for that, Finch was incredibly grateful.

oO0Oo  
end  
oO0Oo


End file.
